


little light.

by Anonymous



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:01:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16908342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The music is loud here, and Connor sees the sunken orchestra situated before the stage in the center of the room. New-Age Jazz, Hank had called it. Connor’s attempts to define the genre remained unsuccessful, but now that he’s here, now that he can see Hank and hear the music all around, he understands the appeal.





	little light.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [konoyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/konoyo/gifts).



The light is 42.7% dimmer behind the brocade curtain. The music, loud enough to drown out the murmur of the hotel lobby behind them. 

Connor blinks as his optics adjust to the environment, looks towards Hank, watches his LED light bounce against the silver of Hank’s hair. Hank had swept it behind his ear in the humidity and, in the 3.7 seconds Connor has looked his way, some strands have slid loosely out of place. 

Connor considers this: he can tuck them back behind Hank’s ear. He enjoys the unobstructed view of the cut of Hanks jaw, the flush on his cheeks. The blue of his iris. #7FB3D5 from across their shared desks at the station, bright in the fluorescent lights. 34.9% red, 54.1% green, 78.4% blue from the left side of the couch, St. Bernard sprawled against his legs. 127, 179, 213 in natural light, 7:45AM, waiting for Connor to hug Sumo goodbye. 122, 129, 144 in this dim hall. 

As the music slows, Connor preconstructs. The feel of his hair, damp from where it brushed his sweaty temple. The scratch of his sideburns against the sensors on Connor’s fingertips. The way his brows furrow and temple creases. That specific shade of his eyes, bright with a job well done, that Connor can pick out on a color wheel.

The branching paths light up his interface:

  * _Result: Hank is uncomfortable with that much contact. Hank shakes the rest of the hair free. 92.4%_
  * _Result: Hank changes his mind about sharing this with Connor. 52%  
_
  * _Result: H--…_



The preconstruction stalls, and Connor blinks away the original parameters.

Perhaps not.  

Before Connor can start working on an alternative, Hank has moved forward, towards the  music's source, a wry grin twisting his face when he catches Connor watching him. More hair has slid out from behind his ear. Connor still very much wants to adjust it. Hank’s collar is askew from where it's been pressed down by the seat belt. Connor wants to adjust that too. 

He wants a lot of things, lately. Things he has no reason to want. A navy suit. Brown shoes to go with his navy suit when his black ones are perfectly serviceable. A stand collar shirt. A bow tie. Socks with paw prints on them. The captain’s approval and the Monday morning check ins with his pseudo successor model. Hank’s… 

Connor’s processor stutters. The hypersensitivity of the receptors on his hand alert him that his skin has dematerialized. He keeps his eyes locked with Hank’s as the nanoskin reforms. Hank gives him an odd look, but he doesn't look down, merely glances away for a moment when Connor’s LED spins back to blue. 

Connor knows what relief feels like, now, and he feels it tenfold. It wouldn’t be the first time that Hank has seen him without the nanoskin, so the question of why he’s so anxious about it remains unanswered, as most things are, he finds, when it comes to the Lieutenant. 

_ When it comes to Hank Anderson. _

Connor wonders if he should have followed Jericho’s example. Slid Hank’s multitool under the seal of his LED and had been done with it. He’s been programmed explicitly to read emotions on others’ faces. It’s his job-- but it’s also Hank’s calling, and the way he eyes the edge of Connor’s temple now strips him to the wire. Conceptually, Connor knows the exposure should alarm him. He doesn’t want to be read easily. Mission or not, it would be a detriment. Hank hates being scanned. Humans hate being obvious. Ergo; Connor should hate being transparent.

Hank shakes his head, leans down to murmur an _excuse me_ to the hostess at the entryway, and backtracks to where Connor stands. 

“Come on, Con,” Hank says, and Connor braces for the arm around his shoulder. “For the first time in my life I’m early for a reservation, don’t ruin this for me.”

“Of course.” Connor directs his smile to the floor. _Con._ He likes it. He lets himself be led, revels in the heat Hank gives off from this close.

He’ll wonder, but Connor knows he won’t reach for any sharp edge. The LED will stay. He wants a mechanical watch, Sumo’s paws heavy on his shoulders, and the way Hank ducks down to his eye level when he thinks he knows exactly what’s spinning in Connor’s head. 

Hank had mentioned the hotel rose from the rubble of an automotive factory, and Connor can see remnants incorporated into the decor. Brocade hanging off steel cross beams, a certifiable explosion of fiberoptic pinpricks across the ceiling like twinkling stars. Connor records the way they flicker, the way they bounce light against chrome and cast iron. It’s a mash of old rust and sleek modernity and Connor tries not to dwell on how the thirium in his veins runs a little warmer at the thought. 

The music is loud here, and Connor sees the sunken orchestra situated before the stage in the center of the room. New-Age Jazz, Hank had called it. Connor’s attempts to define the genre remained unsuccessful, but now that he’s here, now that he can see Hank and hear the music all around, he understands the appeal. The synthesizer feels less out of place, and the way Hank steps to the bass guitar fills Connor with a wave of affection. It’s no heavy metal, and it’s not the emotionally strung records on Hank’s shelf that twist the pump in his chest, but Connor finds he likes it just as well.

Connor follows Hank as he weaves between the scattered tables, arranged with no rhyme, reason, or convenience for the wait staff. Connor can see the chair leg seconds before Hank can trip over it, reaches forward to steady him, fingers curling around the bend of Hank’s elbow. Hank looks back at him, steps around the obstacle neatly, but doesn’t jostle the grip Connor has on his arm. Tugs Connor forward by it instead, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. #688FDB in the twinkling lights, brighter still from the deep navy of his suit. Connor will keep the recording of Hank stepping out of his bedroom, looking clean cut and so incredibly uncomfortable in something tailored, for the rest of his life.

“You look very handsome, Hank,” Connor says, apropos of nothing, as he’s lead to the cluster of tables in the far corner. Hank gives him a look. When Connor compares is to the glares he received months prior for his compliments, it’s a good look. He can’t quite see the way Hank’s face reddens, but he can see the heat signature on his cheekbones rise, which will have to do for now.

Hank find their table, and by the way he situates himself speaks of at least a few evenings spent in that very seat. Alone? With someone else? Connor isn’t sure which option he prefers. It’s illogical to feel jealous over a ghost. But the thought of Hank sitting here alone is worse, surrounded by the glitz and music. Maybe he brought his wife here. Or his son. Maybe he and the Captain kicked back here after their early days. Hank had a family, friends. People that would have loved to spend time with him. Resolutely, Connor thinks: _Now he has me._

“Connor,” Hank says, and reaches forward across the table. Connor doesn’t notice that he’s been spinning his quarter on the edge of a plate until Hank taps it over. Connor lets the coin fall, runs his finger against Hank’s knuckles.

It’s nice, the contact. He knows he doesn’t process touch the same way Hank does. Feels instead the texture differentiation between where the skin is dry at the crest of his bone, the exact temperature of the blood pumping beneath Hank’s skin, a healed over claw mark-- Sumo’s, in his younger years, Connor assumes. Hank brushes his thumb over Connor’s palm, feather soft, and Connor can feel the whorls of his fingerprint.

“Sorry, Hank,” Connor says, finally. 

“S’fine,” Hank shrugs, pats Connor’s fingers one last time before settling back in his chair. “No reason to be so tense, though. This is supposed to be relaxing.”

Connor slips the coin back into his breast pocket. “More relaxing than your couch, Hank?” he asks, slouching slightly to mimic Hank’s casual demeanor. Hank likes it when he eases out of his perfect posture, and it’s an easy enough concession to make. 

Hank has his elbows up on the table, fingers folded under his chin as he focuses on the performers in the orchestra. Connor can see the smile in profile when he answers, “Nothing is more relaxing than that couch, but this is close.”

Connor looks over to the musicians. It’s not particularly relaxing music, but he finds himself eased by it anyway. The forced slouch becomes a little less forced, and if he nudges his toe against Hank’s shoe, well, Hank doesn’t seem opposed. 

Turning in his seat, Connor eyes the bar against the wall before nudging his foot against Hank’s again. 

“Would you like me to get you a drink?” he asks. He will never particularly enjoy Hank in combination with alcohol, but Hank has been moderating, and if there’s any location for a nice drink, this seems to be it.  

Hank tosses him another smile, eyes crinkling. Connor replays how he sounded just now, tries not to huff at himself. It was a little judgemental, but Hank seems more amused now than offended. “Apologies,” Connor says, just in case.

“It’s fine, Connor.” Hank is definitely laughing at him now. “I’m good for now, thanks though.”

Connor nods, goes back to watching the stage as the curtains draw apart. He can feel his foot swinging a bit to the music and, after a moment, he can feel the brush of movement signaling Hank’s similar reaction. 

Hank barks out a laugh when Connor nudges his foot more forcefully. “A little too old for footsies, Con,” he says, though the way he presses back contradicts his his statement. Connor has learned that Hank’s actions speak louder than his words, so he continues until Hank visibly puts all his force into nudging Connor’s foot aside. 

This time, Connor doesn’t try to hide his smile. Likes the way the synthetic muscles under his cheeks pinch with glee. Likes how Hank has slid further down in his chair to better shove Connor’s legs away. He’s definitely laughing, little mechanical hiccups that set Hank off too. He’s thankful for the relatively insulated corner table Hank has chosen. Perhaps it was on purpose. 

They have been laughing together a bit more, recently. The caseload has eased with the coming of fall, and it’s hard not to laugh when Sumo tries to eat the piles of leaves Hank had spent the better part of the morning raking. Connor likes it-- it makes him feel light, and airy, and so very much alive. 

Connor catches both of Hank’s long legs between his ankles, and that seems to be the end of that. Hank can try all he like, but Connor has the strength of ten Hanks put together, plus a few more. It takes a moment of fidgeting, but Hank seems to accept this. “Okay, Connor. You win,” he says, defeated. “You’re the champion of fuckin’ footsies.” 

Connor winks when he relaxes his legs and sets Hank free. Hank settles back in his chair, resigned to his loss, adjusts his jacket from where it's gone askew in the mayhem. Connor remains entirely unruffled, and he makes sure Hank can tell. Hank kicks him, because of course he does. 

They settle into an easy silence after that-- the lounge has started to fill up, the tables around them no longer empty. Connor wonders if that means the end of Hank’s hands on him for tonight. He tries not to be disappointed. After all, Hank had invited him out of his own accord, with no prompting from Connor. Awkwardly, and very endearing... to a place with a distinctly romantic atmosphere. He can tell Hank is trying, and he contents himself with that. 

The servers have started to spread across the room, and Hank waves one down. He's polite, but dismissive, as he orders, eyes drawn with a certain amount of discomfort. Connor smiles, reassuring. It's fine, it's a single drink, and he hates the slightly pinched look on Hank’s face. When the waiter shuffles along to the other tables, Connor runs a quick network query. He's never heard of the drink before.

** ==>Arnold Palmer**

  * _Unsweetened Tea 66.5%  
_
  * _Lemonade 33.5%_



_Oh._  

Connor’s smile is indulgent now, and he tries to catch Hanks wandering gaze. Blue and warm and unable to be summarized in code from this close. When Hank’s eyes finally meet his, Connor asks, “Will you let me try it?” 

Hank huffs, says “Get your own,” but Connor knows Hank will hand the glass over to him before he takes his own sip. Hank is a lot of things-- gruff and surly and a terribly sore loser. But he's considerate, and kind, and-- Connor wants so badly to wrap him up in his arms and never let go. 

Connor smiles, nudges his foot forward again. It's not the touch he wants, but it's a connection Hank allows without any awkwardness. But now, now Connor wants to push. Just a little closer to the knife’s edge he often finds himself on when it comes to his Lieutenant. “A nice place for a date, Hank,” he says, and hopes.

“A date, huh?” Hanks eyebrows raise, but his heart beat is steady. He still looks perfectly at ease. Connor wonders if the grumbling about the suit was all an act back at home. Here, Hank looks like he was born to wear it. 

Connor feels a flood of relief again. Thinks he’ll have to calibrate the Hank Anderson parameters in his preconstruction protocol when he's got a spare moment. Regrets not reaching for him earlier. “Well,” he says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. Goes for gold, as Hank would say. “You dressed up in something that doesn't clash and asked me to accompany you to a venue we don't normally patronize. I'm not an expert, but it sounds like a date, Hank.” He pauses, resists the wink, nerves a minor static discharge on his skin. “Did I misinterpret?”

Hank regards him for a moment, but then he's cracking this grin that has the current running through Connor’s body stuttering. Hank shrugs, dismissive. Says, “Nah,” with no regard for Connor’s well being. 

Connor only notices the drink placed in front of Hank due to his superior peripheral vision. Hank slides it across the table. “Go wild,” he says, gesturing at the glass. 

While he does not go wild, Connor does take a careful sip. He can't taste, not really, and he can't take in more than a teaspoon-- but he can confirm that it's merely a mix of tea and lemonade. It's tart and sweet: citric acid, theophylline, caffeine, sucrose. He decides he likes it, says as much when he shifts the glass back over to Hank.

A few people start shuffling around, and Connor turns to watch them weave their way into the unreserved floor space. The music has softened, he notices, and when he looks up at the stage there's a woman singing gently into a microphone. When the guests pair up, start swaying carefully to the song, something catches in Connor’s cooling system. He keeps his eyes on them, entranced in how they move, some more certain, others in awkward, aborted movements.  

He knows he has no program that will direct him though the steps. He can download and install it in perhaps 14 seconds flat, but he finds he doesn't want to. Instead he zeroes in on those that look… right, like they fit right in with the music. Watches them carefully, the way their legs shift together, hands pressed close or on each others shoulder. Some sway around the space while others look lost in their own world, taking a small sliver of the dance floor for their own. 

Connor’s proximity sensors alert him, and he looks up to see Hanks confused expression, one hand hovering over Connor’s shoulder. Connor has managed to miss him standing from his chair. “Uh,” Hank says, eyes shifting up towards the dancers. 

“Hank?” Connor says, knowing his own voice is laced with… with something. 

Hank eyes the side of Connor's temple, and Connor himself catches a glimpse of his LED flashing yellow in the half empty glass. He turns his face back up to Hank, wills him to meet his eyes. 

“Christ almighty,” Hank says, finally. “Alright, up, lets go. You're worse than Sumo when he wants his snack.” He nudges Connor’s shoulder when there is no reaction. “Uh, Con? If you don't want to that's cool, too,” he adds, the discomfort bleeding into his words. 

That's what gets Connor moving. He jolts up from the chair and says, emphatically, perhaps a bit too loudly: “No, I want to!”

Hank gives a little chuckle, one that has Connor's LED blinking again, but then he's throwing an arm over Connor's shoulder and leading him away from the table. 

They keep to the side, not far from their seats. It's dimmer here, on the edge of the floor, and Connor feels pleasantly insulated from any onlookers. In the grand scheme of things, he doesn't even care. Because Hank is standing in front of him, tie a little askew and suit jacket still unbuttoned. But he's tied his hair back, and he's trimmed his beard. He's tried, for Connor, and he's still trying for Connor and-- Connor doesn't remember ever feeling this light on his feet. It feels like his central stabilizers have given up. 

He reaches for Hank’s hands, because he wants to try for Hank too. Says, quietly, “Hank, I don't know how to do this.”

Hank shrugs, arranges their hands into something comfortable and probably improper. “Can't you download the steps? I only sort of know what the hell I’m doing.”

Connor nods, goes to search, but then once more decides against it before he can fire the query off. He looks up at Hank's face, at his patient expression as he waits for Connor to do his _downloady thing_ , says “I’d rather learn like this.”

Huffing a laugh, Hank pulls him closer. Connor doesn't resist, slides one hand out of Hanks grip and presses it to the plane of Hank’s shoulder. “Alright,” Hank says, looking pleased. “We can both look like losers.”

Grinning, Connor ducks his head, watches their feet near miss each other on every other step. Hank’s right, they're pretty awful at this. A few more awkward steps and Hank sighs, loud enough to make Connor laugh for it's dramatics, and pulls Connor closer, presses his cheek against Connors temple. Against the spinning blue LED. Leaning into the touch, Connor shuts his eyes momentarily, Hank’s facial hair gently brushing against his brow bone.

From this angle Connor can see the space around them. All the dancers in their own bubbles, happy couples and friends sitting around the tables, androids and humans alike-- Connor feels the warmth radiating from his core, mixing with Hank's own. Smiling wide, he shuts his eyes and slips into his world, his and Hank’s alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> To my occasional partner in crime, [and the world's prettiest Connor.](https://twitter.com/oy_on_ok/status/1049329590294990848)


End file.
